


Best Foot Forward

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Come Marking, Feet, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Obedience, Obscene Photos, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley needs help with a temptation, and Aziraphale is much harder to scandalise than he expected.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 117
Kudos: 630
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	Best Foot Forward

**Author's Note:**

> I was challenged to write something about feet, and to make it sexy. That sounded like fun, so I thought I'd have a go at it.

Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen when Crowley pushes open the bookshop door. Though he can feel him on the premises, layer upon layer of angel, where he's wandered through the bookshelves and across the backroom, pausing by the biographies for a while, before heading deeper into the back.

"Honestly, anyone could just wander in and make off with a book," he mutters into the empty space, though there are currently no customers to scrutinise for any possible thieving intent. "Where are you, angel, I require your assistance?" 

There's a creak and a thump from somewhere beyond the stairs, and then Aziraphale appears, missing his jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up neatly. He's holding a very dusty box, the dusty box has even dared to leave a little clump of the same in the angel's pale, fluffy hair.

"Crowley," he says with a smile. "I thought I heard you come in, did you say you needed something?" The idea seems to please him, which Crowley takes a second to be both surprised and quietly, secretly touched by. He slithers inside the shop completely, pushing the door shut behind him with his hip, and sliding his phone out of his pocket.

"Yes, for a very specific temptation, can't do it myself, need your help with it."

Aziraphale raises both eyebrows, and then blinks. As if Crowley has just admitted something vaguely shocking.

"Don't look at me like that, this is nothing to do with not being up to the task, I am in no way inadequate for the task. Also, I know what you're going to say, but I'm keeping my hand in is all. Wouldn't want to get rusty. Just because it's not specifically for Hell any more, doesn't mean it's not worth doing. Honestly, this one especially deserves it, he's a jealous, petulant, angry little man, and his potential step-children deserve better." He grumbles the last of that while he's looking at his phone, but it makes Aziraphale settle the box he's holding on a table, dust off his hands, and when Crowley makes a pointed gesture, his hair, before drifting closer.

"Well then, who am I to refuse." The angel tugs his waistcoat down, then waves with a hand, and Crowley hears the bookshop door lock behind him. "What do you need me for?"

Crowley shifts into the desk, hip leant there so Aziraphale can take the chair opposite, shuffling himself into attentive readiness, with what Crowley suspects is a completely unnecessary wriggle.

"The man has a thing for feet, never understood it much myself, I've always found them to be grubby, weird-looking things, useful for keeping you upright but not much else. Anyway, he may have found himself on a specialist site for such things, and I may have access to that site, and I may have a cunning plan for him to request and then receive certain obscene paraphernalia, all charged to his credit card, of course, leading to a spiral of debt that will leave him penniless, friendless and alone, before he sinks inevitably into miserable, drunken despair."

Aziraphale's conflicted eyebrows and sad expression come with a quietly sympathetic noise.

"No," Crowley protests, mouth turning down at the corners. "Stop that, he doesn't deserve that face, trust me."

Crowley finds the camera on his phone, and considers the best place in the shop to make a foot appealing. The best place not currently occupied by books, curious knick-knacks, outdated globes, or empty boxes of chocolate.

"Right, so, I'm going to need a slightly scandalous picture of your bare foot, angel."

Aziraphale looks rather more confused by that than is really necessary, Crowley thought he'd made all of it perfectly clear. Angel, sexy foot, photos, ruin, destruction, drunken despair, success? Or possibly profit?

"Forgive me for being obvious, my dear, but you do have feet as well." Aziraphale manages to sound far too amused about that. "Two of them."

Crowley sighs. "Yes, perfectly correct, most of the time I do anyway. Unfortunately I also have a bit of a problem there." He shifts onto one foot for a second, toeing at the back of his boot until it comes off in one long slide. Then he bends down long enough to draw off his sock, and reveals his foot to Aziraphale.

"Ah," the angel says, in perfect understanding. "Of course, I should have remembered."

The instep of Crowley's foot has a delicate pattern of scales, sliding up towards his ankle, and his strangely long toes have nails that are a shiny, abyssal black, and ever so slightly curved.

"I can trick people into finding them perfectly normal, obviously. But photographs are a bit of a bastard to deal with. Camera never lies and all that bullshit." Which honestly isn't entirely true any more, technology has improved enough that cameras can lie exactly as well as you want them to. But it's still currently beyond Crowley's ability to be bothered. This is much easier, and as a bonus he also gets the pleasure of Aziraphale's company.

"I would imagine they would appeal to certain tastes though," Aziraphale offers, because he's always found all of Crowley's unique little biological 'quirks' fascinating and delightful. A fact that Crowley honestly hasn't had a clue what to do with at times. What with the obviously demonic nature of some of them. He hadn't known whether to feel insulted, patronised or helplessly turned on. All three at once just gets confusing.

Crowley gives a scoffing laugh, and puts both sock and boot back on with a lazy snap. "Not this one, this one has very specific tastes, and very high standards, so get your perfect, dainty little angel toes out, so I can take obscene pictures of them, and drive the undeserving mad with lust." 

"I feel like you're assuming a lot here," Aziraphale says, but he bends down in the chair, and very carefully starts unlacing his smart, well-maintained, brown brogue.

"Nonsense, you're an angel, also I've seen your feet too, remember." He's tempted to make some sort of 'little pigs' joke, but suspects the angel will take offence. "Sandals for four thousand years. Seen more of your feet than my own."

The shoe is settled next to Aziraphale's desk, sock tucked carefully inside, after being folded twice. Then, at Crowley's urging, he lifts his leg and balances his heel carefully on the small leather stool he'd dragged over.

Crowley considers Aziraphale's foot, which as he'd expected is ridiculously perfect. It's smooth and flawless, pale skin stretching and pulling over strong tendons, with a beautiful arch and a tautly winding ankle. His toes are handsome, but delicate, with clear, glossy nails, and the sole is impossibly clean and soft looking. 

Crowley frowns down at it. It needs something else, the stool is not showing it at its best. It needs to be _flaunted_.

"Where's that fancy pillow you have, the one with the roses and the silk trim, looks like it should have some supervillain's cat sleeping on it?"

"Crowley, that's three hundred years old, I can't put my foot on it." Aziraphale protests, only to cave to Crowley's facial expression almost immediately, gesturing with a sigh in the direction of the chest in the back room.

Crowley retrieves it, and then encourages Aziraphale to put his foot up on it. "There, perfect."

Aziraphale sighs. "Is that acceptable?"

"You look like you've just had the world's most expensive pedicure," Crowley decides. He takes four pictures, then makes a note that he's open to requests, people love requests that always gets attention that does, people want to feel like they're involved. He posts them all in a spread that certain specialist magazines would weep over. And certain rather more specialist magazines would do something else over.

They share a bottle of wine, Aziraphale's naked foot swaying slightly, in a way that feels almost unseemly. Crowley thinks having his foot exposed has given the angel ideas.

Crowley drinks while he scrolls past most of the requests, at least half of them descriptively obscene - but the site doesn't allow obscene images, so the angel's virtue is safe. A few of the requests are harmless enough though, mostly they want Aziraphale to tread on things, or parts of people, or pour things over his toes. Which Aziraphale complains about, but submits to good-naturedly when Crowley suggests it. 

Aziraphale's beautiful foot with wine poured over it (white, of course, they're not amateurs,) gets 286 likes in half an hour. Crowley turns the phone around so he can show him. The angel looks completely nonplussed. Crowley doubts any part of his own body would get the same attention. Save the obvious.

They refill their glasses and sit back on the sofa together, discussing the strange foot-related themes that have stubbornly shown up throughout history, most recently in fairy tales from the eighteenth century, where there was a slightly disturbing running theme of toes being chopped off, nails being driven into the bottom of feet and people dancing themselves to death (he swears he had nothing to do with any of it.) Crowley is currently trying very hard not to laugh, while Aziraphale shares the story of the time he'd accidentally ended up inheriting a vast shoe collection from an Austrian prince, that same century. Who he'd been devastated to learn was unfortunately three shoe sizes larger than him. His bare foot, thankfully not sticky from wine, is half balanced on his knee jiggling comfortably, when Crowley's phone tells him he has a message.

It's a private message, sent from the account he's been waiting to make an appearance. It's two lines of text.

**It's so perfect I don't have words. I could make such a beautiful mess of it, show me what you look like with come over those pretty toes.**

**Email me, I'll pay good money for pictures.**

They read that one together. There's an email address.

"Oh," Aziraphale says.

Fuck. Crowley had been hoping for a bit of preamble first, a bit of flirting, a few photos exchanged, the man hadn't seemed like the bold sort. He suspects that Aziraphale's angelic toes have either made him brave or driven him insane with lust. 

"Really, I should have expected that, shouldn't I?" Crowley says, mostly to himself, but he hears Aziraphale hum agreement next to him. "Using your overpowered angel feet."

He has a moment of sharp, irritated disappointment, because it's all there, email address and offer of payment information. Which he could, obviously, accidentally let slip with a variety of obscene pictures and a few charges for less than savoury objects added. But he'd wanted the paper trail, the humiliating, grovelling requests for ever more obscene displays. Of course the man had to fuck it all up by being too bloody horny. Crowley grumbles complaint, before he slips the phone back in his pocket.

"I'll try him again later. Who knows, it might not be so bad, keep him all warmed up until I can sort something out."

Aziraphale throws him a bewildered frown. "I'm sorry, are you giving up, in the middle of a temptation? Crowley, that doesn't seem like you."

"Angel, I signed you up for foot pictures and a little light flirtation here, not pornography."

Aziraphale huffs like he's exaggerating. "Do you or do you not want to accomplish this temptation?" he asks him. As if he didn't read the same bloody message he did. To be honest Crowley was expecting a lot more scandalised angels, and a lot less in the way of blasé acceptance of recklessly ejaculating on random body parts. It's throwing him a little. 

"Aziraphale, I'm not going to effectively coerce you into a sexual act," he says flatly. It sounds even worse when he says it out loud, possibly because saying it out loud immediately forces him to picture it.

The angel rolls his eyes, and then leans his leg far enough sideways to smack the side of his foot against Crowley's booted one.

"Very well, I consent, now stop sulking and masturbate onto my foot."

What. The. Fuck.

" _Aziraphale_." Crowley hates how scandalised he sounds, hates that it's Aziraphale who accomplished it. He's a demon, for Satan's sake, he can't go around being scandalised by angels. Why is he friends with the only angel who behaves this way? Why is he helplessly and stupidly in love with him? Mysteries that he suspects will remain unsolved today.

"Unless you find the idea distasteful," Aziraphale grumbles, when Crowley's been quiet too long - mostly through shock. And, oh, he's pouting now, as if he thinks his stupid foot isn't good enough to be covered in filth, and Crowley flatly refuses to let him make this _his_ fault.

"I do not find the idea distasteful," he snaps out, with rather more honesty than he intends. And he's aware that he's just admitted to both of them that, no, he wouldn't find the idea distasteful at all. There's no way to bloody take it back now is there?

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him, tilts his head pointedly to his still slowly swaying foot. Crowley honestly can't think of any more arguments, how are there no more very sensible arguments for why this is clearly a stupid idea. Why is the angel encouraging him, for Satan's sake?

"Fine, fucking fine." He pushes himself hastily off the sofa, with a sort of desperate, reckless bravado, and lifts shaky hands to his belt, tugging the buckle aside to get at the button and zip, clumsy because he rarely does it like this. It's usually the work of a miracle, not this awkward, human bid to get at his dick via fastenings and buttons and things. But he's utterly unwilling to miracle away his bloody trousers right now. Which, he feels, would give the whole thing even more of a seedy air - which he really doesn't think it needs, it's quite seedy enough, thank you very much.

Half of him had assumed that Aziraphale would be shocked at the reality of it, once he got this far, that he'd finally protest and be scandalised, and tell him to do his trousers back up. But instead he's just leaning his foot out of the way so Crowley can shift the stool over, making soft noises of intrigue in his throat. Is Crowley really going to do this? He's really going to do this, isn't he? If someone had told him this morning that by the afternoon he'd have Aziraphale seated primly on the sofa, missing items of clothing and impatiently waiting for Crowley to unzip his trousers and get his cock out, he'd have accused them of lying to his face, and then probably cursed them for good measure.

He's already hard, dick a solid line through the black material of his underwear, obvious and eager, and Aziraphale has to know that, because he's literally a foot away, watching Crowley jerkily shove the denim down over his hips, thumbs tucked into the elastic waistband beneath. Where he pauses, and mentally flails for a second.

"I don't mind if you enjoy it, you know," Aziraphale says quietly. He sounds perfectly sensible and honest, rather than teasing and smug, which somehow makes it worse.

"Aziraphale, for fuck's sake." 

"Would you prefer if I was silent, if I took it with a scandalised sort of embarrassment." The angel looks like he's considering it.

Would he? _Would he_!? He doesn't fucking know. It's not like he even knew this was a thing he'd be kind of interested in until two minutes ago. Though the idea of Aziraphale protesting in red-cheeked embarrassment to Crowley ruining the perfect pale lines of his stupid toes, by painting them with his own filthy release - that may indeed be something he could possibly be interested in.

Crowley has his cock out now, and has thus lost the ability to claim any high ground here. He's more than a little embarrassed about miracling a palmful of lubricant, but he does it anyway, swearing under his breath as he wraps a hand around himself and starts a series of long sliding strokes, bottom to top. It feels indecent and shocking and impossibly arousing, to do this with Aziraphale looking at him. He lets his thumb skate over the head a few times, a wet drag of delicious sensation.

"Fuck. Fuck."

Aziraphale is watching the whole thing. He's watching with his stupid, heavy eyes and barely open mouth, and it's the most erotic thing that's ever happened to Crowley in his life, which is utterly ridiculous. It doesn't stop his dick from loving every filthy, embarrassing, exquisite moment of it.

He debates whether to slow his hand down and prove he can last longer than two fucking minutes, or whether to just get the whole sordid thing over with. He's stuck somewhere in the middle, and it feels like teasing himself. Which is awful and perfect, and when Aziraphale makes a quiet noise and presses the bottom of his foot against Crowley's tense knee, like pointed encouragement, he gives a hissing groan of desperation.

He swears and catches the back of the angel's ankle with his free hand, pulls sharply, and Aziraphale makes a soft, breathy sound of surprise and slides a foot lower on the sofa, into a decadent sprawl that makes his strong, beautiful thighs part.

It leaves him looking flushed and dishevelled, slightly affronted, like some Austrian prince whose shoe collection has been raided by a fetishist who intends to ravish him. Which is absolutely something Crowley is going to shamefully jerk off to later. The angel is still make quiet, humming little noises of encouragement, and that's hotter than it has any right to be. Crowley finds himself rapidly approaching the edge, hips working into his own curled hand, breath rasping out of him. He curves over, giving himself quick, wet strokes, and tilting Aziraphale's foot into what he hopes is a good position.

"Oh fuck, Oh sweet unholy fuck." Crowley comes, in long, wet pulses over Aziraphale's foot, sticky lines of it across his perfect, pale toes with their glossy nails, then the high arch of the instep, and just below it. Until there's nothing but drips and spatters that hit and then fleck the rest of the pale skin around his ankle. 

Crowley has made an utter fucking mess of him, and the obscene evidence is leaving shivery echoes of satisfied, possessive pleasure running through him. He makes a wheezing, helpless sort of noise, hand tightening on the angel's smooth heel. 

Aziraphale very slowly leans forward and retrieves Crowley's phone from the table. He turns it very carefully and swipes it open, before finding the camera with a curious noise and lifting it, to get what he obviously considers the best shots of his thoroughly fucking debauched toes. Then he takes a series of pictures, even tilting his foot to encourage a wet line of Crowley's come to run down the instep in a slow, filthy trail.

Painting semen all over an angel's foot has to be some odd form of blasphemy, surely. One of the ones they forgot to write down, probably. They can't have thought of everything, sex hadn't really been invented properly yet.

The phone is set down again on the table, the screen eventually fading to dimness, and Crowley is still bent over, dick soft in the open vee of his jeans, tacky from the last dribbling lines that didn't manage to fall. The room smells like come, and old books, and Aziraphale's warm cologne. It's a fairly fucking heady combination. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley says desperately, as if he's not quite sure what to do now. 

He should do up his fucking jeans if nothing else, because at the moment he's just a lovesick idiot with his cock out. He lifts shaky hands to the fly, trying to tuck himself back in, when he's not sure how he got out of them in the first place.

"Crowley."

He looks up, instantly, as if it was a personal request. 

"Crowley, come here." Aziraphale waves, gently, straightening a touch from his uncharacteristic sprawl.

Crowley shifts closer, still trying to do up his bloody jeans, and Aziraphale tuts and reaches out, nimble fingers drawing both sides together, the back of his knuckles dragging against Crowley's soft, damp cock in a way that makes his spine want to twist itself into a delicious fucking knot, and is in serious danger of getting him hard again, even without an extra nudge from ethereal or occult powers.

The button pops closed, and Crowley whimpers.

He's still whimpering when Aziraphale very carefully lifts a hand, threads it through Crowley's hair and very pointedly tugs his head down. Until Crowley is huffing a surprised groan into the perfect, messy instep of Aziraphale's foot - and he can smell himself, that musky line of come he's left right across the angel's toes. Which makes his gut clench in sharp and unexpected arousal.

"I imagine you know full well what to do," Aziraphale says firmly, as if he expects nothing but obedience.

Fuck. 

Crowley's dead, he's fucking dead and he doesn't even know how any of this happened - but he's leaning in close and opening his mouth, tongue flat against the ladder of the angel's toes, gathering the wet line of come and dragging it back into his mouth. Aziraphale's hand tightens and Crowley groans and hisses a breath, tongue stretched out again to run across the top of the foot, curved where it's smooth and sticky, to press and drag it clean. He lets his tongue trail all the way back down, to dip between the toes, slide underneath for the smooth, delicate balls of each. Aziraphale makes a quiet little noise of delight, toes scrunching under Crowley's mouth and it feels like being punched in the gut.

"Oh, that is unexpectedly pleasant," Aziraphale murmurs, voice like honey, while Crowley's heart is pounding in his throat, tongue soaking the angel's foot as he drags it across the skin over and over, where its smooth and cool, the instep a long arch of delicate skin, and Crowley opens his mouth there and sucks, hard.

Aziraphale's leg stretches and he makes a low, breathless noise of pleasure.

"Crowley, ah, _Crowley_ , that's enough I think."

Crowley makes a sound which can't be classified as anything other than a whine, because he's hard again, he can feel the over-sensitive throb of it behind his zip. He closes his mouth and straightens, clears his throat, and then hisses out something vaguely embarrassed and protesting at Aziraphale's contemplative look.

"Is this going to be one of the things we don't mention," he rasps out. "Because I don't think -"

Aziraphale slides his damp foot off the table and reaches a hand out, digs his fingers into the waistband of Crowley's jeans and draws him in.

"I find myself quite unexpectedly aroused, and I realise it wasn't agreed upon originally, but if you're amenable I would very much like to take you upstairs."

That's very polite. It's a very polite request. "If I'm amenable?" Crowley says helplessly.

"If you would like," Aziraphale corrects, hands moving a touch nervously in his lap now, as if he's worried that he miscalculated. "With me. I don't know -"

Crowley leans over and stops the angel's mouth from talking, in case he says something else that's very polite and nearly destroys him all the same. Aziraphale makes an annoyed noise at being interrupted, but he opens under Crowley, and there's the brief, obscene thought that the inside of Crowley's mouth probably still tastes like his own come. But the angel doesn't seem to mind, if the way he's digging fingers into his hair and pushing his tongue into Crowley's mouth is any indication.

They eventually break apart, and Aziraphale looks beautifully mussed.

"If I'm amenable," Crowley says again, like Aziraphale is a bloody idiot of the highest order. Then he tugs the angel in the direction of the stairs.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Best Foot Forward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23140912) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




End file.
